


Appendage

by SteRhubarb



Series: An Archive [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Marauders, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), first wizarding war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteRhubarb/pseuds/SteRhubarb
Summary: Extras for the same timeline as A History that aren't fully fleshed out, long enough, etc.





	1. 1976

  
They sit around the dining table at the Potters one evening when James’ mum has gone to have tea at a neighbours and Mr Potter lets them all have a cup of beer each. They sit with their elbows on the table, clutching their mugs and laughing raucously at every anecdote and dad-joke that Mr Potter offers them.  
  
Remus feels like a child at heel; looks around at the others and sees his own beaming adoration of Mr Potter reflected back in the faces of the others and it makes him feel overwhelmingly nostalgic for this moment even as its being made.  
  
He frowns into his cup and Mr Potter catches him, reaches over and pours him another nip with a wink.  
  
It’s the summer holiday just after their fifth year and James has invited them all to his house for a week. The weather has finally broken, and the intense stickiness of the previous two weeks has culminated in a colossal downpour with rolling thunder overhead and sharp cracks of lightning viewed best from the gardener’s shed at the bottom of the back garden.  
  
In truth the best view is from the roof of the house, although this is only accessible via flying up on a broom, which Mrs Potter banned resolutely after witnessing two roof tiles go hurtling past her bathroom window to shatter on the patio and embed themselves in the lawn.  
  
They are subsequently roped into helping with chores. It’s manual labour in the form of shifting items out of the ornate sideboard cupboards in the parlour so that Mrs Potter can donate the “tat and nik-naks clogging it up” to charity.  
  
The tat she refers to turns out to be beautifully crafted ceramic ornaments and china sets and old wedding gifts - several of which have baffled Remus to the point of thinking that perhaps you only come to realise the use for them once you’re married.  
  
Mrs Potter says she doesn’t trust the boys to handle the likes of it all with magic, so they form a chain and pass gift boxes and pieces of crockery and glass down their line by hand so that Peter and James can dust and rewrap them in newspaper on the carpet.  
  
“I remember this one,” Mr Potter says about the next item that Sirius pulls from the cupboard, about an hour and a half into their work.  
  
Sirius stands up with it in his hands and Mr Potter’s shoulder is obstructing his view slightly, but Remus can sort of see him going through the motion of lifting a lid to check the contents inside.  
  
“Ugly old thing, I always thought. Needed some pattern work on it,” Mr Potter adds plainly and gives a shrug as he takes it from Sirius and turns to firmly press it into Remus’ waiting palms.  
  
In hindsight, Remus knows he should have been expecting something like it to be unearthed, and taken more care to avoid exactly this, but as it goes, he gets so caught up in the camaraderie of the task that he obliviously stands there and lets Mr Potter hand him an antique silver serving dish.  
  
His first thought when he drops it is hoping it isn’t a priceless family heirloom - nor an expensive antique, for that matter - and he’s struck with the fear that he’s about to be shouted at by Mr Potter, or looked upon with grave disappointment, which is much more keeping with his style.  
  
It hits the carpet between them with a hideously loud crash and everybody starts and turns to see Remus clutch his hands to his chest, before yelping a desperate “sorry”, and inexplicably bending over to try to pick it up.  
  
“Wait.” Mr Potter’s hand shoots out in warning and Remus seems to come to his senses and freezes.  
  
“Shit!” Sirius says, as he leans past Mr Potter to see the red flesh of Remus’ palms and the look of startled horror on his face. “It’s burned him!”  
  
Mr Potter then tells the others not to touch the bowl sitting on its side on the ground and takes Remus’ wrists in his hands and gently guides Remus out of the parlour.  
  
They walk down the long, quiet hall and Remus glances back over his shoulder to see if Sirius, at least, will follow him out, but nobody does. There’s something a little strange about being alone with the parent of a friend, Remus thinks, as though they speak different languages and their translator has gone missing.  
  
He hisses through his teeth as Mr Potter puts his hands under a cold running tap and, still tutting under his breath, begins to get a very worn looking book down from a shelf in the kitchen. He flips to a page with a green tab sticking out of the top and hums in a way that lets Remus know he’s found what he was looking for.  
  
“Okay, my boy, give them here.”  
  
Remus turns the tap off with his elbow and holds his hands out to Mr Potter who stands to survey the damage with his spectacles perched strategically on the end of his nose and his hands on his hips.  
  
They both peer down at the sore, blistered skin, and Remus breathes past the urge to cry a little at the shock of it.  
  
“Got a little aversion to pure silver, have you, son?” Mr Potter asks gently, his eyes now focused on the book in his hand.  
  
Remus doesn’t know what to say to this; frightened of giving something away; frightened of Mr Potter _knowing_ and deciding he shouldn’t be in his house, or hanging around with his son, or even in his son’s school. He gives a small shrug in response and Mr Potter raises his head to give Remus a soft smile.  
  
“Nothing to worry about. Hardly anything much is made of silver these days. I’ll get Euphemia to use the normal dinner set for our evening meals and there’ll be nothing more to worry over, how about that?”  
  
He hovers the tip of his wand over Remus’ left palm and begins uttering some healing charms that instantly soothe the raw skin. It takes no longer than ten minutes for him to do both hands and Mr Potter says it’s because he barely held the bowl for a second or two.  
  
“Like it never happened, eh?” Mr Potter beams, after scrubbing a hand over the skin of Remus’ hands to check it doesn’t still hurt anywhere.  
  
Remus nods, and finds he’s almost closer to tears than he was after being burned.  
  
Mr Potter doesn’t ask Remus anything else about it, and he doesn’t mention the bowl at all - just gives Remus a look that says any secrets are safe with him, and that they’re okay, then claps Remus on the shoulder and turns to replace the book on the shelf.  
  
“Go on back now, lad,” he tells Remus over his shoulder, who utters a ‘thank you’ and scurries from the room.

 


	2. 1979

  
They all practically stumble into the safe house in one go - there are others on their heels coming through the front door, the Prewetts meeting them in the hallway having come in through the back way, and when they all reach the parlour Dorcas and the rest of her lot are tripping out of the Floo.  
  
They crowd inside, and there in the middle of the room Dumbledore is heeding a message from a Patronus in the likeness of a stout.  
  
It stands on its hind legs, poised but urgent, peering up at him as though ready to sprint back to where it came from as soon as the message has been delivered, and an echo of its owner’s panicked voice emits from no place in particular.  
  
Remus enters the room ahead of the others. He moves quickly into the far corner to make way for the rest pouring in behind him and bends over double, planting his hands on his knees and panting for breath.  
  
James follows next, pressing a hand against his own diaphragm and bumping into Remus; the result of Sirius not stopping in time and butting shoulders with him. Peter manages to avoid joining the collision, but he’s wheezing heavily.  
  
They stand up against the wall watching everybody stumble in, wild eyes taking in the blood and dirt and fear on many of the faces. James’ mouth moves as he counts heads but it’s difficult when everyone is moving.  
  
The room buzzes. It sounds like everybody is speaking at once, trying to snatch answers from the chaos and piece together the exact the nature of this colossal shit-show.  
  
They move like a swarm, pacing the room or swaying where they stand; waiting. Their frantic voices overlap one another, and then above it all every few minutes there comes a grieving sob that tugs so sharply at Remus’ heart that it keeps him still from catching his breath.  
  
He can’t see who it is but he doesn’t need to. An answering wail begins to build in his throat. He tries to cough it away and he feels Sirius’ hand settle on his lower back.  
  
When Remus looks up again toward Dumbledore after what feels like an eternity in this limbo, he finds Dumbledore’s gaze pointed in their direction. There’s something instantly recognisable about the expression he’s wearing and Remus has to very slowly unfold himself to stand up straight before he places it.  
  
His heart thumps rapidly, painfully in his chest and his hands have begun to shake in anticipation, but before he can move James takes a step forward from beside him.  
  
When he turns, James is staring hard across the room back at Dumbledore. They hold one another’s gaze so intensely for an uncomfortable moment, and then an inescapable understanding suddenly washes over Remus and he exhales sharply, like all the wind has been knocked out of him.  
  
“ _What?_ ” Sirius asks suddenly. His voice is desperate as it cuts through the moment and startles Remus to flinching.  
  
Everybody in the room seems to go quiet then, their conversations halt or dip to murmurs one after another in a ripple that runs out away from James.  
  
Dumbledore says his name softly in the awful way one tends to say _I’m sorry_ , and when James shakes his head in return, Dumbledore gives a sorrowful nod and confirms, “It’s your parents.”  
  
The room abruptly falls silent.  
  
Peter raises both hands to cover his mouth, and Sirius goes very still like a man trying to control a vibrating anger.  
  
James takes a step back as though he can escape it, and he begins to take short, sharp breaths that Remus recognises well as the starting signs of a panic attack. He steps forward and presses one hand to James' chest and the other firmly between his shoulder blades. “ _James_ -” he says firmly, to grab his attention - he’s still staring, horrified across the room at Dumbledore - “James, sit down. Sit here.”  
  
He pushes James down onto the floor, against the wall at Peter and Sirius’ feet and crouches in front of him, hand still to his chest. He feels James grip his fingers in place, and he gazes at Remus with a watery desperation that makes Remus’ own eyes prick with tears.  
  
When Remus glances up at Sirius for help he’s just staring down at James with a shell-shocked expression; eyes similarly wide and frightened. Peter still stands with his hands pressed to his mouth, and Remus hears Dumbledore's footsteps approach from behind as he crosses the room towards them.   
  
_This is nothing_ , he thinks, clinically. _This is nothing I can't handle, compared_. Later, the thought will appal him - that he could experience the moment in such a way while the rest of them process the devastation like normal human beings, even if it renders them frozen with shock - but without it he wouldn't be able to tell James to "close your eyes. _James_ , shut your eyes and take a deep breath. Breathe in when I press down, then let it out with me."  
  
Then he looks up at Dumbledore over his shoulder - and, again, he will be stunned when he thinks back on it later; the audacity - _tells_ him, "I'm apparating him home. You can send someone over later, but send us an owl first."  
  
And with that, he leans into James' space to mutter the plan to him, looks up at Sirius with a nod, and promptly apparates out with James.


	3. 1980-81

Make-up sex doesn’t turn out to be as satisfying as Remus feels he’s been led to believe his entire life.  
  
Maybe they’re doing it wrong, but with him and Sirius it feels more like interim sex. Time-out sex. Putting a pause on the hostilities and rewinding to a time when they didn’t live the tense lives of resistance fighters and bicker all of the time over how best to survive.  
  
It begins to feel to Remus like the majority of their interactions are arguments or sex, and the sex follows no apologies, or admissions of being wrong or feeling guilty. There’s no further discussion to resolve their misunderstandings or express regrets over hurtful things said to one another.  
  
And perhaps Remus wouldn’t mind if it was a little rough, and they could use it to let out their frustrations through the medium of grappling with each other whilst naked in bed. If, maybe, there was the satisfaction of bruises, or at the very least the feeling of being fucked to the point of exhaustion to pretend like they’d hashed some of it out.  
  
Instead, they hold one another gently and Sirius fucks him so slowly sometimes he wants to cry out with desperation. There are times he comes so close to just blurting out a full-blown apology mid-orgasm, and has to bite down on his lip so hard to stop himself on one particular occasion that he draws blood.  
  
  
  
  
It all starts to blur at some point. Remus can’t remember exactly which points of view he’s angry at Sirius about, and he just begins to resent Sirius in general.  
  
They’ve passed an afternoon being relatively affable with one another, but there’s been an  undercurrent of tension in every room they possess together for some months now. They proceed with caution and this method has got them as far as twilight one evening, where they stand side by side at the kitchen sink doing the washing up.  
  
Sirius has grown the habit of doing them by hand when the colder months draw in. It allows him to switch his mind off for a short period of time and focus on a task that keeps his hands warm, and Remus, in an attempt to bridge some sort of distance they can’t ignore is beginning to stretch between them, joins him.  
  
They go on with Sirius washing and Remus drying for some time in silence before Sirius realises Remus doesn’t normally do this and makes some sort of effort by trying to strike up a quiet conversation, but Remus’ answers when they come seem to be clipped and reluctant.  
  
It takes a nose-dive quite quickly thereafter.  
  
Sirius has asked his thought on a subject quite offhanded, and Remus has given an answer that surprises Sirius.  
  
The answer comes in contrast to something Sirius has quite plainly given an opinion on in a recent discussion they had with James and Peter, and at the time Remus had not only withheld input - as he does sometimes when he's too tired for a debate or an argument - but sat resolutely silent at the table until the subject had changed.  
  
In an attempt not to lead it toward a disagreement, Sirius laughs lightly and says, “I don’t understand you,” as he runs a hand across his eyes.  
  
Unfortunately, to this, Remus quietly mutters under his breath, “truer words have never been spoken,” and Sirius turns to look at him sharply.  
  
“Wh- are you--?” Sirius reels slightly, puzzles over trying to read Remus’ face. “Is this an argument?” he asks, almost incredulously.  
  
“What?” Remus asks, avoiding eye contact as though the tea-towelling of the cutlery in his hand is fully engrossing.  
  
“ _This_. Is this an argument?” Sirius confirms. “Because I think it’d be decent of you to let me know if we’re having one, so I can actually take part, you know?”  
  
Remus briefly meets his eye, an eyebrow raised at Sirius’ audacity, and then scoffs and returns to drying the dish in his hand.  
  
“Yes, then?”  
  
“ _Don’t_ , Sirius,“ Remus warns. He leaves the rest of the dishes on the drying rack and throws the tea-towel on the counter before he stalks out of the kitchen.  
  
He hears Sirius hurry to dry his hands and follow him out into the hallway.  
  
Remus stops and turns, expectantly.  
  
“This has got to stop,” Sirius begs. “Talk to me, Remus.”  
  
Remus balks at the accusation. “Talk to you? Like you talk to me, you mean?”  
  
Sirius sighs shortly. “Yeah, okay, we’ve got into some sort of vicious cycle where we’ve stopped telling each other things-”  
  
“‘ _We_ ’,” Remus scoffs. “That’s bold of you, Sirius, to imply that you didn’t instigate this yourself by taking secret trips to see James and Lily without me, and going for drinks with people without telling me, and thinking I wouldn’t find out?”  
  
Sirius chews at the inside of his cheek instead of arguing back and Remus feels impatience and dissatisfaction settle heavy in his stomach.  
  
“You-” he begins, then repeats firmly, explicitly. “ _You_ , Sirius, did this. You started this when you stopped trusting me with your secrets.”  
  
“Do you think I’d still be here if I didn’t trust you?”  
  
“I don’t pretend to know a single fucking thought that goes through your head anymore!” Remus snaps. “I look at your face, Sirius, and it’s like looking at a stranger.”  
  
There’s a stunned silence within which Sirius just stares at Remus, shocked and wounded by the admission.  
  
“Don’t,” Remus snaps, trying to wrestle the guilt that builds. “Don’t pretend to be surprised. What did you expect after months of this bullshit?”  
  
Sirius shakes his head, still struggling his way back to speech.  
  
“You think there’s been trust here _at all_ this year? You’re lying through your fucking teeth. That, or you’re being naive and mistaking trust for comfort. We’ve done nothing but avoid telling each other direct truths since I was attacked in January.”  
  
“I’m sorry if you think I’ve been keeping--”  
  
“Stop it!” He yells, throws his hands in the air helplessly. “Just stop it! I’m tired, Sirius, I’m tired of this. I’m terrified and I’m tired, and we’ve done some awful things, and I’d rather not add to it by dragging the carcass of this relationship any farther. We’re not supposed to do this to each other!”  
  
Sirius presses a hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. He nods briefly in agreement, and that’s when Remus slumps into a chair at the table.  
  
“God, this isn’t supposed to happen,” he sobs, swipes his fingers beneath his eyes to flick away the tears and then stares down at his hand on the edge of the table.  
  
Sirius hovers beside the couch waiting for Remus to say something further, but the minutes pass and the sun begins setting, dragging the daylight out of the window with it and Remus remains silently staring down at his hands.  
  
When he finally looks up he's is mildly surprised to find the room dim as with dusk, and Sirius is no longer there.  
  
Sirius may have walked out entirely, for all he knows.  
  
Perhaps he’ll wander into the bedroom and find Sirius’ clothing gone from their usual resting places of everywhere except the cupboard they’re supposed to be in. Or maybe he’ll see his toothbrush removed from the pot in the bathroom, and his dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice (which actually belongs to Remus) no longer sitting on the cistern in the loo.  
  
That could have been _It_. Remus told him exactly what he’s been feeling for weeks and weeks now - that he’s fed up of pretending they feel the same way about one another as they used to - and Sirius understood that to mean they should go their separate ways, and left.  
  
Remus dares himself to go and look in on the bedroom. He holds his breath as he pushes the door open and stands in the doorway trying not to cry when he sees Sirius’ things still occupying their usual spaces, and in fact, a cigarette still smouldering dangerously in an ashtray on the windowsill, signalling that he was here fairly recently.  
  
Remus crawls into the bed fully clothed, curls up with his head on Sirius’ pillow and sleeps for a full 24 hours until Sirius bursts into the bedroom in the pitch black of three o’clock the next morning and announces, standing over the bed with blood on his face, that the Prewetts are dead.

 


End file.
